


just like the ocean (you change what i see)

by lanternparks



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, Foster Care, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Past Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-13
Updated: 2016-05-11
Packaged: 2018-06-02 04:00:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6549847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lanternparks/pseuds/lanternparks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The emptiness and foreignness of the room is bittersweet. Under these circumstances, it’s better than being at your own house, surrounded by ghosts in every corner. There are no memories to haunt you here. It’s like a fresh canvas, but you don’t want to paint anymore.</p><p>or, clarke is put in foster care and meets lexa.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Do you understand that a plea of guilty is the same as if we continued with this trial and you were found guilty by the jury of manslaughter in the first degree?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“By pleading guilty you are giving up your right to a trial by jury or by judge; you are giving up your right to call witnesses to put in a defense, so that you and your lawyer can cross-examine the witnesses that are brought in; you are giving up your right to a trial. By pleading guilty you are giving up all these rights. Do you understand that, ma’am?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“And by pleading guilty, you are also giving up your right to appeal the plea and the sentence. This means that you cannot go to a higher court, and claim that your lawyer didn't explain what was going to happen, or that you didn't understand the Judge, or that the sentence was too harsh. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“You have been charged with manslaughter in the first degree, and driving under the influence on the 24th of May at 5:14pm. Can you explain what happened that night?”

You drown out the rest of the exchange. You don’t need to hear what happened; you were there.

You don’t need to hear about how your dad died; how your mom _killed_ your dad. You don’t need to be reminded how you should have known your mom was drunk, how you or your dad should have taken the keys from her.

Sure, you were used to her only getting shitfaced at night. You were used to having to carry her to bed when your dad worked late. You were used to having to lay awake to make sure she didn’t choke on her own vomit. You were used to making up excuses as to why your mom drank herself half to death every night.

But you never knew she was drinking during the day, or even during work. You always spent as much time as possible outside of the house during the day and on the weekends. You just didn’t know, but you should have.

You knew what she was like when she drank. You should have seen the signs. You should have said something to your dad.

It’s your mom’s fault he’s dead, but it’s your fault too.

The pounding of the gavel, signifying the end of the hearing, brings you out of your own thoughts. You look next to you, Wells is sitting by your side, his hands wrapped around one of yours. He’s looking at you expectantly, and you realize you missed the sentencing, and maybe more.

In front of you your mom is being handcuffed. She’s looking at you. You know she wants you to say goodbye, but you don’t think you can.

Watching her get led away by the officer on duty doesn’t sting like when you had to watch your father’s casket being lowered into the ground and smothered with dirt. Your lungs don’t tighten in desperation; you’re not struggling to breathe like you did at his funeral, as if you were being buried yourself.

It actually feels like the opposite. Losing your dad was heartbreaking, but losing your mom was a relief. You don’t have to keep her secrets anymore, or take care of her when she’s too drunk to take care of herself. Your family doesn’t have a reputation to maintain anymore—although that probably has more to do with the fact that you hardly have a family in the first place anymore.

You’re finally free, but you’re alone.

“Clarke?” Wells says, and you realize that, no, you’re not actually alone.

“What was the sentence?” You ask, finally tearing your eyes away from your handcuffed mother.

“Ten years, but she can get parole in four years.”

You nod, not bothered by the fact. Maybe she deserved more for what she did, you think.

“My dad could still take you in, Clarke,” he adds.

“By the time your dad would be approved to foster anyone I’d be eighteen. It’s just a few months, Wells. I can handle it,” you say, shaking your head.

When the social worker assigned to your case, Trisha, interrupts to ask if you want to say goodbye to your mom, you say no. Your answer doesn’t change when she gives you a sad look and asks if you’re sure.

\--

Your things are already packed, waiting for you in Wells’ car. You’ve had your things packed since a week after the accident. Your mom was always going to plead guilty, and you didn’t want to be in that empty house any longer than was necessary.

In the fall you’ll be in your senior year of high school, and if you’ve been taking care of your alcoholic mother for years now then taking care of yourself should be easy. The court doesn’t seem to agree with you, though, and both your grandparents passed away when you were just a kid. You’re stuck in foster care until you turn eighteen.

It’s only for a few months, you tell yourself. Less than a year, until you turn eighteen. Given your age, you’re sure no one will adopt or foster you. You’ll practically be independent, save for the dozen or so people sharing the same roof over your head. It’s nothing you can’t handle.  

\--

You say goodbye to Wells in the parking lot of the courthouse. He offers to come with you and help you unpack, of course, but you say no. He’s been glued to your side ever since the accident. Under different circumstances you wouldn’t mind—you grew up together, he’s by your side in most of your childhood memories—but you just want some quiet time alone for once.

You don’t get your wish.

“Think of it as a private boarding school, but you still go to normal school…or maybe it’s more like a summer camp, until the fall. Then its summer camp, but with school. It’ll be fun. I’m sure you’ll make a ton of friends. It’ll be like living in a dorm with a roommate. Maybe it’ll prepare you for college,” Trisha tells you on the way to the group home. If her youthfulness hadn’t given away her inexperience to you before, then her rambling did.

You just want her to shut up. You’re old enough to know she’s sugarcoating it. The only thing you can think of that would be ‘fun’ right now, is being able to sleep in your own bed tonight, with your very much alive dad sleeping in the master bedroom across from yours. But that’s not going to happen, and living in a group home isn’t going to be a paid-for-vacation either.

It’s a good distraction, you’ll admit that. You’ve been avoiding riding in cars as much as possible since the accident. The majority of the time you’re tense and jumpy. Your eyes betray you and you can’t help but feel like every car is swerving too close to your lane or they’re taking too sharp of a turn even when deep down you know there’s nothing to worry about.

Your good hand—the one not wrapped in a splint—is still clenched by your side, but you keep your head down and focus on how much you hate Trisha’s voice. Listening to her spew some bullshit is probably the better option, you decide.

When you eventually pull up to the house, it’s not exactly what you expect, but then again, it’s not like you had many expectations to begin with. You grew up in a rich, gated community, and went to a private school up until sophomore year because you wanted a ‘real high school experience.’ Your entire life has been so sheltered and pampered, it’s a wonder you even knew what foster care was before this.

From the outside, the house looks a lot nicer than what you saw in _Annie_ as a child. Despite the fact that it houses over the twice the amount of people in your family, it’s smaller than your old house. From afar it’s look like any old house in the neighborhood. Its two stories, painted a now faded, light blue, with a sizable yard. The only indication that it’s actually a group home is a small plaque by the front door that reads ‘Polis Children’s Home.’

Your eyes are still glued to the plaque when Trisha knocks on the door. Within a few moments the door opens to reveal a man, one of the supervisors of the group home, you assume. The first thing you notice is his size—he’s giant. Then you notice the long beard and tattoos, and you’re pretty sure this guy belongs in a biker gang, not as one of the guardians at a youth group home.

Once he’s introduced himself as Gustus, he walks you and Trisha into the dining room. They fill out a few final papers before Trisha announces her leave. She promises to check in on you in a few weeks to see how you’re settling in, and tells you to call if you need anything. You doubt you will.

After Trisha leaves, Gustus offers to give you a quick tour of the household.

“You’ll have chores. There’s a chart in the kitchen, it changes every week. Just check it every Monday morning to see what you’re listed under. You won’t have any this week while you get settled,” he explains as you enter the kitchen.

It’s nowhere near as big as the one at your house, but it’s still modestly sized. Your eyes land on the drawers, noticing how some of them have locks on them.

“We keep locks on some of the drawers that have knives and scissors in them. It’s precautionary.”

You nod, wondering how many other restrictions there are. You’ve never been one to cook anyway, but you can’t imagine what else you won’t be allowed to do or use if they won’t even trust you around scissors.

“Dinner is always at six-thirty every night. Breakfast and lunch are up to you, but everyone is woken up at eight every day.”

“Even in the summer?”

“That’s just in the summer. You have to be up by six during the school year.”

So much for that independence. Hopefully they’ll at least allow naps.

\--

Gustus explains the rest of the rules and expectations of the household. You find out there are three levels: green, yellow, and red, and you have certain privileges or sometimes more restrictions based on your level.

Eventually he finishes explaining everything, and you make it to the living room. As you walk down the hall you can make out multiple voices coming from the room.

They’re all about your age, you see a moment later. Sitting on the couch is a brunette, and spread out with her feet in the other girl’s lap is another girl your age. Her hair is darker and her skin is tanner. Given her position, you can’t help but notice a brace on her leg.

Despite there being two armchairs in the room, the two boys in the room squeeze into one of them together. One of them—a Korean boy you think—takes up the majority of the seat. The other boy who sits half on the armrest and half in the chair has dark skin and wears a beanie.

“We have a new member in our community, you guys,” Gustus announces, immediately gaining the group’s attention. “This is Clarke, she’ll only be with us for a few months until she turns eighteen, but I expect you all to treat her nicely.”

“She’s rooming with Lexa?” The brunette on the couch asks. She sounds worried, almost.

“Octavia, you don’t need to scare Clarke when she hasn’t even unpacked yet,” Gustus says.

“Should I be scared?”

Gustus shakes his head, sending a glare Octavia’s way. “No, there’s nothing to worry about. Lexa takes a little while to warm up to people, is all,” he explains. “Anyway, would you all mind introducing yourselves now?”

“Octavia,” the girl from before smiles.

“Raven Reyes,” the girl with her feet in Octavia’s lap says.

The boy in the armchair gives a genuine smile. “I’m Monty, this is Miller.” Miller simply nods in your direction.

You give an awkward wave, wanting to go to your room already so the day will be that much closer to being over.

“Good luck with Lexa,” Octavia says, as Gustus begins to guide you out of the room.

\--

It’s then that Gustus finally offers to show you to your room so you can put your things away. As you make your way up the stairs and down the hall, he explains that the boys stay on the right side of the second floor, and the girls stay on the left. Each side has one bathroom and two bedrooms, with two kids in each room.

The door to your new room is open, but he gently knocks on the doorframe anyway. You can partially make out your new roommate over his broad shoulders. She’s about your height, with long, curly brown hair and glasses that slide down the bridge of her nose. Despite the similarity in height, there’s something intimidating about her. It might be the daggers her piercing green eyes give you when she notices your bags.

“What’s this?” she asks, looking at Gustus.

“Clarke, why don’t you go unpack while I speak to Lexa?” he says. You know it’s not so much of a suggestion as it is an order, so you do as he says.

There are two twin sized beds against the walls on opposite sides of the room, two dressers, and two desks. Like the walls, the sheets are white. Besides a few books and papers on one of the desks, the room is so bare it appears uninhabited.

The emptiness and foreignness of the room is bittersweet. Under these circumstances, it’s better than being at your own house, surrounded by ghosts in every corner. There are no memories to haunt you here. It’s like a fresh canvas, but you don’t want to paint anymore.

You can still hear them arguing through the door as you unpack. It’s just what you need at the moment: a roommate who hates you. It doesn’t seem like they gave her any warning, and you wish they had. Maybe she would have calmed down by the time you arrived.

After another minute or two of incomprehensible grumbling between the two voices outside, Lexa walks back into the room. She still looks just as annoyed as when she first saw you, but this time she doesn’t spare you a glance as she sits down at her desk, her back towards you.

\--

You finally get the silence you’ve been craving for a month. In the time it takes you to unpack your things, Lexa doesn’t say a word to you. She sits at her desk, reading a textbook and occasionally jotting down some notes despite the fact that it’s June.

You’re lying on your bed that smells like bleach, your eyes drifting to the ceiling, to Lexa, to your new dresser and your new desk, to the white walls, to Lexa. You’re trying not to stare, but there’s not much else to do. The walls are white; your new desk is bare. You’re beginning to regret wanting all this silence.

And you know you could go downstairs and hang out with some of the other kids, but it’s still awkward. You don’t know anything about them, except something fucked up happened to them to get them to this place, just like something fucked up happened to you. Besides, why get attached to them when you’ll only be here a few months? You have Wells, and that’s all you need.

At the same moment, your phone vibrates with a new text. It’s from Wells.

 **Wells (6:17)**  
how is everything??

 **Clarke (6:17)  
** good i guess, my roommate hates me tho

 **Wells (6:18)  
** what u do to her?

 **Clarke (6:19)  
** nothing

 **Wells (6:20)**  
oh

 **Wells (6:20)**  
she’s probably just shy

 **Clarke (6:22)**  
one of the other girls here wished me luck when they found out i was rooming with her

 **Wells (6:22)**  
want to spend the night at mine tonite?

 **Clarke (6:23)**  
i don’t think i’m allowed

 **Wells (6:24)**  
i’m sorry

 **Clarke (6:27)**  
it’s fine, i’ll talk to you tomorrow okay?

 **Wells (6:27)**  
sure, but txt if u need anything

 **Clarke (6:29)**  
okay

“It’s time for dinner.”

You nearly jump out of your bed at the sudden sound of your roommate’s voice. It’s softer and quieter than you expected after her conversation with Gustus, but you hadn’t been expecting her to say anything at all.

“I’m sorry, I did not mean to scare you.”

God, it’s soft. And quiet. Nothing like how she sounded with Gustus. Maybe Wells is right, maybe she’s just shy. You hope so. As much as you keep telling yourself five or so months isn’t that long, it keeps looking longer and longer as the day goes on. Getting along with your roommate would be a welcome relief.

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it,” you finally tell her.

 There’s a beat of silence and you realize she’s waiting to go downstairs with you. She’s silent but she looks down at you expectantly when you continue to lounge on your bed. With a sigh, you get up, realizing she’s not going to leave without you.

“I wanted to apologize,” she says as you walk out of the bedroom together. “For the way I acted earlier, when you arrived.”

You wait a moment to respond, thinking she might give an explanation as well, except it never comes.

“It’s fine,” you say again.

She gives a firm, almost imperceptible nod in response. She doesn’t say anything else on the way downstairs.

\--

Everyone is already sitting at the table by the time you make it downstairs. Thankfully, Gustus doesn’t say anything and neither does the other supervisor you briefly remember him mentioning—Indra. Neither of them have any food in front of them, so you figure their shifts are about to end. You can’t remember the names of the two other supervisors Gustus mentioned, but you’ll meet them soon enough.

Quietly, you and Lexa take your seats next to each other, in the last two seats available, with Octavia on your other side.

Throughout dinner you remain silent for the most part. The rest of the kids have been in the midst of conversation since you arrived, and you don’t really know where to break into. You had never second guessed your social skills in the past, but then again, you were practically born with a best friend. It had never been an issue when you had had a best friend since birth that you spent almost every day with.

About halfway through dinner you notice one of the boys staring at you. He’s not one of the two—Monty and Miller—that you met earlier. His shaggy brown hair has been slicked back, out of his face and his blue eyes kind of make your skin crawl.

He notices you looking back at him and finally speaks up. “Is that Valentino?”

It’s the last thing you expect to come out of his mouth. You look down and realize you never changed out of your clothes from the trial, not like that would have helped much. A look into your wardrobe would show that your idea of ‘casual’ clothing is Ralph Lauren or Calvin Klein.

“Yeah, it is,” you eventually reply.

“What’s a Valentino?” Octavia asks.

The boy responds immediately before you can say anything. “A designer, dumbass.”

“Language, John!” Indra warns angrily. “You’ve already been warned earlier today.”

“Sorry,” he says, offering a cheap smile.

“How would _you_ know her dress is designer, Murphy?” Raven asks.

“Why do you think, genius?”

Next to you, Octavia gently nudges you in the ribs. “Murphy’s a bit of a klepto, by the way.”

“So if any of Clarke’s Valentino crap goes missing we know who to blame,” Miller pipes in.

Murphy rolls his eyes while everyone else, yourself included, laugh. A moment passes, and you think the conversation has passed, until Murphy seems to realize something.

“Wait, what’s a rich girl like you doing here?”

The question catches you off guard. You figured it was a ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ kind of situation here, but maybe you’re the exception. It’s not every day that the cheapest article of clothing a foster kid owns is worth at least two hundred dollars, you imagine.

You stumble over your own tongue trying to come up with an answer. A part of you thinks it could be a rhetorical question, because really, what kind of asshole asks that? For God’s sake, if one of them would just pick up a newspaper they could see for themselves.

Before you can decide whether you’ll tell him to fuck off or give him a legitimate answer, Indra speaks up again.

“John! That is your last warning!” she growls.

“It was just a question!”

“It was rude, and you know it.”

Murphy sighs but doesn’t offer any further impudence and the conversation quickly flows to the next subject. Despite the blunt question, you feel far more comfortable joining in on the conversation than before.

The remainder of dinner finishes without a hitch. You’re introduced to the other boy you’d failed to meet earlier as well, Jasper. His hair is shaggy, but darker than Murphy’s, and falls into his eyes. He’s by far the goofiest and loudest of the bunch. If you didn’t know better, you would think he had managed to sneak some weed in behind the counselors’ backs.

\--

Dinner isn’t a long affair, although a lot of the other kids continue to loom around the table and talk. A few minutes after seven the two other supervisors arrive and Gustus and Indra prepare to leave. You’re left alone with the other kids while Gustus and Indra go into the foyer to talk with their coworkers.

Despite the fact that the other supervisors haven’t shown their faces yet, you noticed Lexa tensing beside you when Gustus and Indra started gathering their things. Throughout dinner she had still been quiet for the most part, but she would occasionally offer something to the conversation and seemed generally relaxed. There’s an obvious difference between her now and her a few minutes, and you can only assume it has something to do with the two people standing in the foyer with Gustus and Indra.

“Clarke, wanna watch a movie with us?” Jasper asks, taking you out of your thoughts.

“What movie?”

Jasper shrugs, and to your surprise, it’s Lexa who speaks up. “We don’t have any DVDs or anything, so it’s just whatever’s on cable.”

It shocks you that these kids don’t even have any DVDs, when you basically have a movie theatre in your house. You’re not upset and you don’t miss it—it was always too big to begin with, you can’t imagine how empty it would feel now—but you’re continuously shocked at how little these people have.

You agree to watch a movie despite not knowing what the options even are. They’re being friendly enough to ask you, and things could be a lot worse. It’s better than sitting in your room, staring at your ceiling and letting your thoughts overtake you.

Besides Miller and Monty, who turn down the movie in favor of going back upstairs, you all settle into the living room. You share the couch with the girls, while Jasper and Murphy takes the armchairs. It’s a snug fit, but you don’t mind.

The only thing that isn’t halfway over already is some Shia LaBeouf movie that isn’t Transformers, and within a few minutes you realize these people don’t shut up, even during a movie.

“Who names their kid after a vegetable?” Murphy grumbles.

“The Coldplay guy named his kid after a fruit,” Octavia says.

“I’d rather be named Kale than Apple,” Raven adds.

“But Kale’s a guy and Apple’s a girl, so you’d have to be called Apple,” Jasper argues.

“I’m pretty sure fruits are gender neutral, Jasper.”

“Kale isn’t a fruit, though.”

You can almost feel Raven rolling her eyes from across the couch. Fortunately, she doesn’t push the argument, and everyone falls silent again.

The dad and Shia LaBeouf are on their way back from a fishing trip. You realize you have no idea what the movie is called, let alone what it’s about. Up until now it looked like some cheesy coming-of-age father and son film.

A car cuts in front of them, and you already know what’s gonna happen next. Movies are predictable. There has to be a catalyst to set the rest of the plot going, and of course in this one movie it has to be a car accident. You can’t help but hold your breath until it happens.

It’s nothing like your accident, but it’s all you can see. You barely notice what’s actually happening on the screen at this point. Instead you see your mom fail to slow down as you approach the stoplight. You hear the cars honking and you feel the impact of the crash all over again. You can taste the blood from biting your tongue during the impact. You smell the spilled gasoline and feel the shattered glass beneath your palms. You can’t help the shutter that runs down your spine.

Someone takes your hand and guides you out of the room, having noticed your discomfort. You don’t see who it is until you’re sitting down on cool tile and you hear a door close behind you.

“It’s okay, you’re safe,” they say softly, sitting down next to you on the bathroom floor. Your vision is blurry with tears but after only a few hours you can already recognize that voice.

Lexa.

You try to remember to breathe, but it does the exact opposite. Your lungs fill with air too quickly, in rapid spurts to make up for the time you were holding your breath. You’re glad you’re sitting down because it’s making your head dizzy.

“Just breathe in, hold it,” Lexa tells you. It’s a lot harder than she says, though. It feels like there’s a golf ball in your throat and you just want to get as much air past it as you can before you suffocate. You can’t breathe. A few more tears spring loose as you try your best to do what she says. With all your strength, it still feels like you’re suffocating.

“Breathe out,” she reminds you after a few seconds. “Why don’t you count the tiles with me?”

“Okay,” you acquiesce. Your voice sounds much raspier than it normally does and your vocal chords shake with every syllable. It hurts to talk a little, but the pain is a good distraction.

Her hand hovers over yours on the tile, like she’s waiting for your permission to touch you. You give her a nod and she gently takes your hand in hers, gliding your fingers over the outline of one of the tiles. When your finger has completed the outline of the tile she looks at you expectantly.

“O-one,” you say shakily.

You do this a few more times until you’ve reached twelve and are outlining the tiles by yourself. Counting the tiles has calmed your breathing down but you still see the crash every time you close your eyes, and you’re still lightheaded. The tears have slowed down somewhat and the ball in your throat has slowly evaporated. You wipe the remaining tears away with the palm of your good hand.

“Can I do anything?” she asks.

You shake your head, closing your eyes. Tears keep falling sporadically down your cheeks. You try to think of anything else to distract yourself, but all that’s been on your mind for the last month is the car accident, your dad dying, and now it’s all hitting you full force for not letting it out sooner. You can’t help when your breathing begins to get a little labored again.

“What’s your favorite subject? In school,” Lexa asks randomly. To distract you. She must have noticed you getting bad again.

“Uh, art,” you croak.

“What kind of art do you do?”

“Drawing, mostly. Sometimes I paint.” Hoping to rid your voice of its hoarseness and shakiness, you clear your throat.

“What do you draw?”

“Normally I just do landscapes.”

“No people?”

“Only the special ones,” you say.

“I’m sure you’re very good,” she says.

You both fall silent but your breathing is back to normal and the tears have stopped. Leaning your head back against the bathroom wall, you realize how tired you suddenly feel.

“Thanks,” you say eventually.

She nods in reply. She looks like she wants to say something else but is holding back.

“What?” you push.

Hesitantly, she says, “Have you ever had a panic attack before?” It is a little invasive, but you can see where the question is coming from. Although you can imagine that your reaction to the situation should have been answer enough. You didn’t even realize you were having one until Lexa had led you to the bathroom.

You shake your head. Your life had never been perfect—taking care of your alcoholic mother while maintaining a 4.0 GPA could prove to be difficult sometimes, but you never had problems like you had now.

“You should talk to someone. Gustus or Indra could set it up if you asked,” she says.

You nod but don’t say anything again. You’re not completely convinced talking about it will help, but you won’t say that aloud. Talking about it is only going to bring those emotions and those memories back and you’ve just seen what happens when you do that. With enough time what happened won’t be at the forefront of your brain and the nightmares and the panic attacks will stop. You don’t need to talk to someone for that to happen, you just need to give it time.

“I’m really tired, so I think I’m just gonna go to bed,” you stand and Lexa follows a second after. “Thank you, again, though. I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

“Of course. If you ever have one again, you can always come to me,” she says.

It’s the most she’s said in one sitting all day, you think. However, you couldn’t be more grateful to have her as a roommate instead of someone else right now. The other kids here are nice enough, but they don’t seem like the type of people who would calm you down from a panic attack, especially after knowing you for less than twelve hours.

\--

When you finally part ways you head for the stairs while Lexa heads for the living room, only to be stopped and pulled aside by one of the new supervisors. She’s impressively taller than Lexa, who’s already a couple inches taller than you. Her hair is blonde and her face is made up of intimidating, sharp angles. She looks like a vulture ready to pick apart each of the broken kids in this house. Your eyes meet with hers on your way to the stairwell and you quickly look away, deciding you definitely prefer the day shift supervisors better.

Once you make it upstairs it doesn’t take you long to crawl into bed. You feel like all of your energy has been sucked out of you after your panic attack. Your eyes feel heavy and beg for you to close them but your mind is still reeling. You don’t think you have the energy to have another panic attack, even if all you could think about was your dad and the accident, but you still can’t seem to fall asleep.

You’re not even sure if sleep ever came to you when Lexa finally comes to bed. You were close, you think, to finally falling asleep, or maybe you had managed it for a few minutes at least. It doesn’t feel like that long has passed, but you can hear Raven and Octavia heading to their room across the hall as well, so you know it’s been a while.

Lexa doesn’t make much noise, so you don’t give away that you’re still awake. You close your eyes and try to focus on falling back to sleep. After a few minutes you hear Lexa walk back out of the room, and a few more minutes later you hear her return.

Eventually, you don’t know when, you fall back to sleep.

\--

You can hear moaning, or crying, maybe. It is pitch black when you open your eyes, so you know it’s still night time. You wonder how long you managed to sleep for this time. Maybe you’re just meant to have a sleepless first night at this place.

Everything, including the sounds around you, slowly starts to come into focus. Suddenly you remember the whimpering, which seems a lot closer than it did when you were still half asleep. It’s not coming from a dream, or from another room, but from the bed across from you.

“Lexa?” you whisper. You wonder if you’ve actually only been asleep for another few minutes, but no answer comes. She’s asleep. She’s having a nightmare.

You struggle between the two choices you have; waking her up and possibly having to comfort her, or just ignoring it until eventually the nightmare passes.

You don’t particularly want to listen to hear cry for much longer, or at all really, but you don’t want things to become uncomfortable between the two of you if she realizes you heard her having a nightmare. Yeah, she comforted you during a panic attack earlier, and she didn’t force you to talk about it. But it’s different. Somehow.

You decide to leave her be when she thankfully quiets down after a few moments. A part of you feels like a shitbag for not waking her up. Nightmares don’t usually pass, that’s why you grabbed your earphones. You either wake up from it or the nightmare doesn’t end. You would know—you had them for at least a week straight after the accident.

You barely know her, though. One moment of comfort doesn’t mean you’re friends suddenly. You grab your earphones just in case she starts back up again, and promise yourself that you’ll say something to her if it becomes a recurring theme. For now you let the music from your headphones lull you to sleep, and pray to God that these next five months don’t go by as slowly as your first day has.


	2. Chapter 2

Your legs dangle off the edge of the examination table while you wait for Doctor Tsing to arrive. It’s a standard follow up appointment after the accident. Doctor Tsing will just confirm what you already know; your sprained wrist is healed. You stopped wearing the splint a week ago, and it hasn’t bothered you a bit. You only wear it today for show, until you get the confirmation you need from the doctor to take it off.

It’s been just under two weeks since you moved into the group home, since your mom was found guilty of manslaughter and drunk driving. Personally, you would say you’ve adjusted to the new situation quite well. You’re getting along with all the other kids at the house and today is your first day of work. You’ll be working with Octavia and Miller at a bookstore—the group home has a few connections with local businesses to give the kids work during the summer, but the bookstore was the only one left with any openings.

You definitely don’t need the money, but you’re hoping it will make the summer pass by quicker. You still don’t have the privilege of having guests or going out yet, so the only contact you’ve had with Wells in the past two weeks is through texts and phone calls.

There’s a soft knock on the door. You tell them to come in and a second later Doctor Tsing walks through the door.

“Clarke, how have you been?” she asks with a smile.

“Fantastic,” you say, your words subtly laced with sarcasm. Your dad is dead, you’re in foster care, but otherwise everything is great.

The doctor doesn’t pick up on your sarcasm. “And how has your wrist been?” she asks as she looks over your chart.

“Fine, I haven’t even been wearing the splint lately,” you admit to her.

She puts down the chart on the countertop and starts undoing the splint. “That’s good to hear. Can you wiggle your fingers for me?” she asks once the splint is off. You do as she says without a problem. “Now bend your wrist down, then up.” You follow all the commands easily and without any pain.

“It looks like it healed perfectly, Clarke. Have you had any other problems? Headaches, back pain?”

You shake your head as she pulls the stethoscope off from around her neck. “I only had headaches for a couple weeks after the accident. I haven’t really had any problems since.”

“Good, I’m just gonna listen to your breathing now,” she says, pressing the stethoscope your chest.

You take a few deep breaths for her until she’s pleased with what she hears. It makes you think of all the times you played with your mom’s stethoscope as a kid.

“You look healthy, Clarke,” she says, bringing you back to the present day. “How have you been emotionally, though? What you’ve been through can be hard to deal with.”

You shrug, putting up walls. “What does that matter? My wrist is fine, no headaches, I’m good to go,” you say, jumping down from the examination table.

“Just because you’re healthy physically doesn’t mean you’re healthy mentally. And as your doctor, it’s my job to make sure you’re healthy in every since.”

You look away, weighing your options. There’s really no point in lying to her after how defensive you got before. Eventually you shrug, before mumbling, “I had some nightmares at first, and I had a panic attack a couple weeks ago, but I’ve been fine since then.”

She nods, writing something down on the clipboard. “I’m going to write you a referral for a therapist. I’ll give it to Indra and she can set up the appointment.”

Begrudgingly, you nod. You don’t try to hide your discontentment.

“You don’t have to talk about the accident if you don’t want to, Clarke, but I would really like it if you went and gave this a shot,” she tells you.

You sigh and nod. It’s not like you have much of a choice. If you refuse, they’ll just get a court order.

Doctor Tsing leads you back out into the waiting room where Indra sits. You take a seat while Indra gets up to clear everything with the receptionist. It only takes a couple of minutes, and you’re finally able to leave.

\--

The bookstore isn’t the distraction you thought it would be for the summer. Two hours into your four hour shift, two customers have come in. And no offense to Octavia or Miller, but you could pass the time just as slowly if you were at the house watching television.

At least you get paid for doing practically nothing.

You’re sitting in one of the many armchairs scattered throughout the store that are meant for the customers. Miller is reorganizing books in the back, while Octavia plays some game on your phone in the chair next to you. You’ve learned that the only other kids with phones at the house are Monty and Jasper, although more often than not they’ve got them taken away for bad behavior. Miller used to have one until it got too hard to keep up with the payments for it by himself. Other than them, all of the kids have never had cell phones.

You’ve been letting Octavia use your phone a lot lately, mostly just to play games, but sometimes to call her brother without having a restricted amount of time to be on the phone. The group home only lets you make two phone calls a week with the house phone, fifteen minutes at a time.

You only ever use your cell phone to talk to Wells now, anyway. Octavia definitely appreciates it more than you do.

“Shit!” Octavia groans. The phone that was once inches from her face now dejectedly drops into her lap.

“You lose again?”

She nods, “It wasn’t my fault this time. You got a text and I got distracted.” She tosses your cell phone into your lap.

“Sorry,” you say as you unlock your phone and go to your messages.

“Its fine, thanks for letting me use it,” she says. “I’m gonna go see if Miller’s almost done.”

There’s one new text message from Wells, asking how your first day at work is going. You text him back, telling him how utterly mind-numbing it is and asking him if he wants to come by. You’re not allowed to have visitors at the group home yet, but no one can stop him from coming into a bookstore and spending time with you there.

He agrees to come down within the hour. You pass the time recounting the money in the cash register. Nothing’s changed since the last customer came in an hour ago. The store has made a whopping seventy-four dollars today.

Wells arrives with an hour and twenty minutes left in your shift. You’re leaning against the counter with Octavia and Miller when the bell above the door chimes.

He’s wearing a tan shirt and jeans, with a blue jacket on top despite it being early July. It was a Christmas present from you in junior year and you can count the number of times he’s taken it off on one hand.

You walk out from the counter to give him a hug and he wraps his arms around you, lifting your feet off the ground by a few inches. “I’ve missed you so much,” he says.

“I’m missed you too,” you tell him, smiling. Texts and phone calls don’t compare to having your best friend next to you. Especially when you've lived next door to each other your whole lives.

“Want to introduce me to your friends?” he asks once you’ve let go of each other.

You turn back towards the cash register where Octavia and Miller stand, watching the scene unfold. “Miller, Octavia, this Wells. Wells, Octavia and Miller.”

Miller gives the same nod of acknowledgement to Wells that he gave you when you first met, while Octavia actually comes out to shake his hand.

“Are you guys dating?” Octavia asks.

You can’t tell if you’re choking or laughing, but Wells pats you on the back just in case. “Um, no. We’re best friends,” he explains.

“Oh, my bad,” she says, chuckling. “You guys just look close.”

“Being best friends can do that,” you say. You don’t mean for it to come out vehemently but you’re pretty sure it does.

“So what’s there to do around here?” Wells asks, trying to break the ice.

Octavia shrugs, “You can read…or nap.”

“There’s an espresso machine in the break room,” Miller adds.

“Are we even allowed to drink coffee?” You ask.

“We can’t at the house, but I think that’s ‘cause they don’t want to spend the money on coffee for us,” he explains.

You all end up making four cappuccinos, before realizing that there’s no sugar in the break room. The espresso is bitter to say the least, but in order for them not to go to waste Miller suggests that whoever drinks them the fastest gets five dollars from each of the losers.

You’ve barely taken one taste-bud destroying sip of yours before Octavia downs her entire mug. She slams her mug on the table triumphantly. Wells spits his gulp back into his mug, not willing to put himself through the torture when he’s already been defeated. Octavia holds her hand out, waiting for the cash to come.

The rest of you end up pouring your cappuccinos down the sink before handing over five dollars each to Octavia. At least one of the cappuccinos didn’t go to waste.

\--

You should have known better than to invite Wells to a bookstore. When Octavia started buzzing off the walls not fifteen minutes later she took Wells for a tour of the store. It only took five or ten minutes for them to make it back to the front of the store with the speed Octavia was going, but of course Wells returned with a book to read.

He was now reading—or attempting to, at least— _Primitive Technology: A Book of Earth Skills_ , but you’re pretty sure he’s been trying to read the same paragraph for ten minutes. Reading was difficult when you had a caffeinated sixteen year old talking your ear off.

“You know this is the type of stuff Lexa would read? You guys could bond over this nerdy crap,” she says to him.

He nods in reply, too polite not to at least acknowledge that she’s talking to him. You’re pretty sure he could outright ignore her and she would keep talking anyway, though.

“Wells, you’ve been on the same page for like, an hour, just give it up,” you tell him.

He sighs, letting the book fall into his lap. “Happy?”

You nod, smiling. “Very. I didn’t invite you down here to read, nerd.”

“I don’t know if you know this, Clarke, but that’s generally what bookstores are for. Besides, y’know, buying books,” Miller adds.

In the roughly two weeks you’ve been at the group home, you’ve realized that Miller is quiet. But on the rare occasions that he does speak, it’s to make a sarcastic comment. By the time you turn eighteen your eyes will have gotten quite the workout from you rolling them so much.

“Speaking of, I think I’m gonna get this one, if one of you guys want to check me out,” Wells adds.

“Of course you are,” you tease, smiling.

Octavia jumps up to check Wells out, happy to get out of her seat and have something to do. It takes at least five minutes to count his change back to him due to her hands shaking so badly, though. There’s twenty minutes left in your shift when Octavia finally finishes and Wells has his new book in a bag.

“I have to head back home, but text me your schedule and I’ll try to stop by as much as I can,” Wells say to you.

You nod, “I will.”

He goes in for another hug and you wrap your arms around him. You work four days a week, but it’s a stark contrast to every other summer in which you spent almost every day with him, save for the times when one of you had a family vacation or got sick. Hopefully the supervisors at the group home will start trusting you enough to have visitors.

“It was nice to meet you guys,” he says to Miller and Octavia once he’s pulled away.

“You too,” they say just before the bell chimes again, signaling his departure.

The three of you spend the next ten minutes making sure everything is in order for the next set of employees coming in after your shift ends. With ten minutes to spare left in your shift Indra arrives, and your three new coworkers arrive sporadically over the next five minutes until the three of you are all ready to leave.

\--

You’re lying in bed, trying to nap. Despite lights being out by ten—and that’s only if you’ve been on good behavior—you still feel sleep deprived when they wake you at eight. You’re getting plenty of sleep, obviously, but its summer. You should be allowed to sleep in late.

Naps have never come easily to you. Once the sun is out and you’ve been woken up, there’s no getting back to sleep. You could easily lay in bed for an hour or two after waking up, but falling back to sleep? That doesn’t happen. The only times you can recall napping after the age of six are during finals or when you’re sick.

So you’re tossing and turning in your bed. Your hair and sheets are probably a mess from all the rolling around. It’s too bright in the room, even with the lights off and the curtains closed. The walls are too thin; if you concentrate hard enough you can almost hear the conversations going on downstairs perfectly.

You’re so tired. Now that you’ve settled into the house you’re getting at the least eight hours of sleep a night, ten hours if you fall right to sleep and Lexa doesn’t wake you up in the middle of the night. But you’re so tired, _emotionally_. And you’re dying of boredom. The house is boring, there’s never anything good on television—even when there is, after a couple hours you swear you feel your brain melting—and now even your job is boring.

There’s nothing to distract you from your own thoughts. Not that there’s a lot of variety going on up there. You’ve been thinking about the same few things for over a month now, but you can’t help it. Even though you want, you just keep repeating the same thoughts over and over in your head.

If nothing had happened and the rest of this summer had gone on as planned, you’d be at home, with your paints and sketchbooks and video games. And you could have Wells over as much as you want, or you could go to his house if you’d gotten bored with your own. You could play with his dog Lily. Your parents would probably be taking you on a cruise in the next couple of weeks, just before you had to start getting ready for school to start.

You just want things to be normal again.

Lexa walks into the room, and you decide the naps not going to happen. She and Raven left with Gustus just a few minutes after you, Octavia and Miller got back from the bookstore. You didn’t ask where they were going, figuring they probably had work themselves. Taking in her appearance, you realize you were wrong.

Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail, but there’s a few small curls still escaping from the hair tie. She’s dressed in shorts and a t-shirt and for the first time that you’ve noticed, she’s not wearing her glasses. There’s a thin layer of sweat on her neck, and you wonder if it descends down under her shirt.

_Why would you be thinking about that?_

You know _why_. You’ve known you were bisexual for a few years now. You’ve had sex with girls and boys alike, although you’re only had one or two serious relationships. But you don’t know why you’re thinking about what’s going on underneath your _roommate’s_ shirt. Your quiet roommate, who has nightmares that keep you up at night and studies more in the summer than you do during the school year, who you only met less than two weeks ago.

“Hey,” you manage to squeak, when you realize you’ve been staring at her chest for God knows how long.

“Hey,” she responds, opening up her dresser to take a few articles of clothing out.

“Where have you been?” you ask, just trying to make conversation.

“The gym,” she says, looking down at her clothes as if to say to you, ‘isn’t that obvious?’

“Oh. Right.” It is obvious, but you were too busy thinking about how kissable her neck looks to realize that.

“I am going to get a shower,” she says, holding the fresh set of clothes up as evidence. “See you at dinner,” she adds.

“Yeah, see you,” you say as she walks out the door and doesn’t look back.

\--

Dinner passes by slowly. It’s mostly due to the horrific state of the food. There’s only so long you can push the food from side to side like you’re eating.

While the chicken breasts aren’t raw, they’re still lukewarm in the middle and the seasoning consists solely of an overabundance of salt. The salad made to accompany the chicken isn’t that bad, save for the dressing which tastes more like piss than anything else.

You envy Indra and Gustus for be allowed to leave afterwards and have real food.

It’s Jasper’s turn to cook dinner this week, and you’re dreading it now that you’ve gotten a taste of what it’s like. Today was only his first day, and apparently it was his ‘specialty.’ When you asked what they meant by that, Monty clarified that it’s one of the few meals he can make that’s actually edible. You wonder why they keep putting him on cooking duty, but apparently it doesn’t matter if you’re good or bad at the chore, because it’s meant to teach you how to do it when you age out and have no one to do it for you. You think it’s just an excuse for free underage labor.

As Indra and Gustus prepare to leave after dinner has finished, Indra pulls you aside before you can go back upstairs. “I wanted to let you know, we take the kids down to the George Washington Memorial to watch the fireworks on Independence Day. If you don’t want to come then one of us can stay here,” she explains.

“No, no, I’ll go,” you say. It’s a public event, maybe you could meet Wells there.

“Good, it’s important to get out of the house for things besides work and school,” she tells as she grabs the last of her things before she leaves. “By the way, you should be allowed to have visitors by the end of the week.”

“That’s great, thanks.”

She nods and says goodbye to Nia and Titus—the two supervisors on nightshift whose names you finally learned—who arrived a few minutes prior before leaving.

\--

As it turns out, Wells can’t make it. He’s busy competing in a charity chess tournament that gives all the proceeds to veterans. _He’s such a fucking nerd._

You don’t have much room to talk. He taught you how to play chess—or really, your dads showed you both how to play chess—when you were little. For years you both played the game with your own rules until eventually you understand all the different ways each piece could move. As you got further into high school, and started getting busier and busier you had less time to play with Wells. But he always found time, and even joined chess club at the high school.

So he was technically the bigger nerd, but only because of your once busy schedule.

You’re sitting on a blanket with Raven on one side and Lexa on the other. The fireworks show doesn’t start for another hour, but the area is packed and more people continue to show up the closer it gets to show time.

You haven’t done this since you were a kid. It just never seemed worth it for a fifteen minute show of fireworks. Your family could more than afford your own fireworks to last for hours at your house.

It’s a nice sentiment from the supervisors, though. You know your experience at the group home could be going a lot worse.

You are wondering how they trust all the kids to bring them out to such a crowded event. Sure, all of you had to be on good levels to be allowed to come, but even normal parents can lose their child in a crowd like this. You don’t know why any of the kids haven’t made a break for it yet, or that it hasn’t at least happened in the past to get this privilege revoked.

You voice your thoughts to Raven, and she tells you that only a few people have tried to run away in the past couple years, to her knowledge. The last boy to run away, John Mbege, was found dead two days later. Apparently if you don’t end up dead like him, then you end up in even more shit with the cops when you’re inevitably found or come back.

As the crowd gets bigger and space begins to run out, you notice Lexa growing quieter and tenser. She jumps when you gently nudge her in the ribs to get her attention.

“Sorry,” you mumble, pulling your arm back.

“It’s okay,” she tells you. After a moment she adds, “What did you need?”

“Um,” you don’t want to outright ask her what’s wrong. You doubt she would confide in you anyway. As much as she comforted you during your panic attack, you never told her about why it happened. About what happened to you. “Do you want to use my headphones?” you ask eventually. Maybe it would help calm her down.

“Why?”

“You just seem—I don’t know, I just thought you’d like to block the noise out,” you try to explain.

“Oh, uh, yeah, sure. Thank you,” she says.

You pull your earphones and your phone, going to your music app before handing them off to Lexa.

“Thank you again,” she says.

“It’s no big deal,” you tell her.

The show starts a few minutes later, and Lexa seems to enjoy it now that she has something to block out the rest of the crowd. It is beautiful, although it only lasts a few minutes.

\--

Doctor Marcus Kane is the therapist you’ve been referred to. He runs his own private practice, a ten minute drive from the house. The practice has only been around for five years, but he’s been a licensed therapist for sixteen.

You’ve gotten to know more about him in the fifteen minutes you’ve been here than he has about you. You know that he was born and raised in Washington, DC but he went to Cornell University. You know that despite being forty-two he’s never been married, nor does he have kids. You know that even though he has a Van Gogh replica hanging up his in office, he knows next to nothing about art. His secretary picked it out to make the office more ‘cozy.’

At first you introduced yourself and made small talk. Then when he started asking questions, you shut down and shrugged most of them off. You focused on your surroundings, although there wasn’t much to see. The walls are white; the only things hanging up are his diploma from Cornell and the Starry Night replica.

When the quiet became too much, you turned the questions around on him and that’s how learned about his education, his home life and more.

There’s only forty minutes left in your session. You wonder if you’ll get in trouble if you don’t open up to this guy.

“So, Clarke, let’s talk about you now,” he says. “What brings you here?”

You shrug again. He’s asked the same question ten minutes ago—before you switched things on him—he just used a different arrangement of words. “I was in a car accident,” you vaguely explain.

“Do you want to talk about it—”

“Not really,” you interrupt.

He writes something down on his notepad. “Well, you can tell me something else about yourself if you want. We can talk about whatever you want.”

“I’m sure they’ve told you all about me already—Dr. Tsing and Indra,” you say. Even if he’s only been told about the car accident, Indra calling for the appointment would have given away that you’re now in foster care and it’s not hard to connect the rest of the dots. Why write it out for him when he already has all the answers?

“They’ve told me a few things, but I’d rather hear what you have to say,” you say.

“What all did they tell you?” You ask, stalling.

“About the car accident, that you’ve been having some nightmares, panic attacks—”

“I only had a panic attack once,” you correct him.

“I’m sorry, my mistake,” he says. “We don’t have to talk about that if you don’t want to, though. We can talk about how you’re liking the group home, or anything, really. It’s up to you, Clarke.”

“The group home’s fine,” you shrug. “The sheets are kind of scratchy. I used to have really nice ones back at my house.” They were Charlotte Thomas sheets. Your dad paid over two thousand dollars for them. Two hundred thread count just doesn’t compare.

He writes something down on his notepad again. “Do you like the other kids in the house?”

“Yeah, they’re all pretty nice,” you pause. “My roommate has nightmares a lot. I haven’t said anything about it, though.”

“Do her nightmares trigger you at all?”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you find yourself having nightmares after you get woken up by hers?”

“Oh,” you say. You think about your answer for a moment, even though you already know it. “No, I just put on my headphones and go back to sleep.”

“So why haven’t you spoken to her about it?” He asks.

You shrug again. “I just don’t feel like confronting her about it. My music blocks it out, so it’s not like it’s a problem anyway.”

He nods, deciding to change subjects. “Have you kept in touch with people from before the accident?”

“Yeah, it’s a little difficult with all the stupid rules the group home has, but I’ve been able to see my friend Wells a couple times and we text a lot,” you explain.

“You haven’t spoken to your mom?”

You grind your teeth without even thinking, “No.”

“Do you plan to?”

You shake your head. Suddenly your throat is so sore you don’t think you can trust your voice to speak.

Abby Griffin won’t step outside prison walls for another ten years, unless she gets parole, in which case it would only take a couple years off. You have no desire to see or call her in that time span. By the time she gets out, with or without parole, you’ll be out of college, and hopefully far away from this town, or even the state. Even if she found out where you lived and came knocking at your door, you wouldn’t answer.

If anyone can hold a grudge, it’s you.

When you were about six, you were friends with a girl in your class named Charlotte, but your best friend was Wells. She accidentally tripped him on the playground one day, and even though you were standing right next to him when it happened, you convinced yourself it was intentional. You didn’t have a single civil conversation with her again till freshmen year of high school. Looking back now even, you still feel like your treatment of her was justified.

That was for accidentally tripping Wells. Your mom killed your dad. You don’t see yourself ever wanting to repair that relationship.

Dr. Kane must notice that you’re not up for talking anymore. After writing a couple last things on his notepad, he clears his throat. “I think we can end the session a few minutes early, Clarke, but I’d really like to see you again.”

You slowly nod, standing up from the leather couch. There were still fifteen minutes left in your session, but you’re glad it’s over. You don’t need to hear about how it’s healthy for you to stay in touch with mom and try to mend that relationship. There’s no relationship left for you to mend, and you don’t need some stupid psychologist try to convince you otherwise.

He probably wants to tell you how a child “needs to have a parental figure in their life.” But you’d still have both of yours if it wasn’t for her.

You hope he continues to let you control the conversations. As long as he doesn’t force you talk more about your mom, you’d be more than willing to come back for another session.

“You can have Indra call me to set up another appointment if you want,” he says as he escorts you back to the waiting area.

“Sure,” you say.

Indra is already sitting in the waiting room, despite you getting out early. She gets up from her seat and shakes hands with Dr. Kane. “Good to see you again, Marcus,” she says. You wonder if he is the therapist they send all the kids at the group home to.

“You too,” he says smiling through his beard. “I’ll see you in a week or two, Clarke.”

You nod, “Thanks, Dr. Kane.”

“Oh, you can call me Marcus,” he tells you and you nod again, waving goodbye as he disappears back into his office.

\--

Its ten minutes till lights out. You know Nia will be in here any minute now to make sure you’re both in bed, but you can’t get what Kane said out of your head.

You refuse to think about your mother, not that he got very far with that conversation anyway. No, it’s the thing about Lexa that’s bothering you. You don’t know why you haven’t confronted her. You promised yourself you would if her nightmares didn’t stop. Which, okay, she hasn’t had one since before the fireworks show. That was a good sign, but now you want to confront her after what Marcus said.

You don’t want to put her on the spot, or force her to tell you why she has so many nightmares. But you’re starting to feel bad about not comforting her the first time again. You’d only known each other a few hours, but that hadn’t stopped her from comforting you during your panic attack. You just need her to know that you’re here if she needs you.

“Lexa?” you whisper, despite the fact that she’s still clearly awake and the lights are still on.

She looks up from where she’s sitting on her bed, brow raised. “Yes, Clarke?” Her voice is soft as always, but she doesn’t bother to whisper like you.

“You have nightmares sometimes.” You scold yourself the minute the words leave your lips. Because the girl having nightmares really needed to be told she was having nightmares. She definitely was unaware of the fact before now.

Lexa appears to be holding her breath, like she’s been caught with her hand in the cookie jar. After a moment she says, “I’m sorry.”

You feel even worse now. You didn’t want her to apologize. You didn’t mean to make it seem like you were calling her out. You _meant_ to comfort her. God, you suck at feelings.

“No, no. It’s not a problem, Lexa—”

“It doesn’t wake you up at night?” she asks.

“Well, yeah, but I just put music on and go back to sleep,” you try to explain. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant that—whatever is giving you nightmares, you can talk to me if you want, or something.”

“Oh,” she says. She finally relaxes a bit, her wide green eyes looking down at the sheets on her bed. “I’m sorry for waking you up, though,” she adds, still looking down at the sheets.

“It’s really fine. After the way you treated me my first day here, the least I can do is be here for you if you need me,” you say.

She nods, looking back up and giving you a small, almost playful smile. “You mean ignoring you and arguing with Gustus to get you sent to a different group home?”

You actually laugh at that. “No, I meant the part where you comforted me and calmed me down after knowing me for maybe six hours.”

Her smile becomes less playful, but it doesn’t completely vanish. “I guess you do owe me a little bit, Clarke.”

“Anyway I can repay you?”

She waits to reply, though you know it’s just for playful dramatic effect. “I’ll have to let you know when I think of it.”

“Fair enough.”

“Thank you, though,” she says more sincerely. “I don’t know if I’ll take you up on your offer, but I appreciate it nonetheless, Clarke.”

You smile, “It’s no problem, Lexa.”

When Nia comes to check on you both a couple minutes later, you’re both already in bed with the lights off. That night Lexa doesn’t have any nightmares. You don’t bother putting your earphones in. Instead Lexa’s shallow, even breathing lulls you to sleep, and you sleep just as peacefully through the night.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm really not happy w/ how this chapter came out but there's only so many times i can rewrite and revise till my brain turns to mush :/ hopefully it didn't turn out too badly

You don’t know how you got here—drawing her.

Ever since you got the okay from Dr. Tsing that your wrist was better, you’d been trying to get back into drawing. You’d started with trees and the moon; simple things. Yet none of them had come out right. You were starting to get worried that maybe the sprain had done something, that you wouldn’t be able to draw like you used to.

Despite how frustrating it had been getting, you woke up early this morning with an unusual, newfound determination. Since there wasn’t a whole lot to draw in your room, you try to draw things from memory at first. You are still too lazy to get out of bed and find something new to draw, rightfully so, considering the sun was barely out yet. It’s unusual enough for you to even be awake at this hour.

There aren’t too many memories that haven’t been tainted by the events of this summer, though. Almost everything you can think about drawing ties back to your dad somehow and your eyes sting with tears before you can pencil anything onto paper. Once you pull yourself back together, you try to draw the simplest things you can think of, things that won’t remind you of either of your parents.

You try to draw the dog you had up until sophomore year of high school, a black lab named Max. You try to draw Wells’ dad’s marble chess set that you’ve always been jealous of. You try to draw the orchids you had in your backyard, which have probably died by now.

And when your drawings inevitably don’t live up to the memories, you move onto a new subject. _Your sleeping roommate._ She sleeps like a board almost. It’s easy to think her arms covering her chest look like she’s cuddling herself or trying to stay warm, but you think they look more like a shield to protect her from an unknown force.

Drawing her is a subconscious act. You don’t really think about it until she starts to stir in her bed. That seemed to wake you up from whatever trance you were in as well.

You look down at your drawing. It’s messy, given the fact that you barely looked down until Lexa started waking up, and it’s not complete, but it has more depth and detail than any of the other things that you have attempted to draw in the last week.

You can’t decide whether drawing your roommate while she sleeps is just creepy or embarrassing. _Probably both._

You try to hide the evidence before Lexa wakes up completely, but you fail miserably. It’s mostly due to the fact that it only ever takes Lexa a matter of seconds to be awake and alert. You don’t know how she does it. Without any incentive to get out of bed, you usually fall right back to sleep for another few hours, or at best lay in your bed for an hour or two before getting up.

“You’ve been drawing?” she asks, still rubbing the sleep out of her eyes as she sits on the edge of her bed. She hasn’t seen _that_ drawing, but it’s hard not to notice the collection of paper and charcoal littering your bed.

“Yeah,” you say nonchalantly, trying to cover the drawing of her under a pile of other papers.

She’s already gotten up to investigate further. “These are very good, Clarke,” she says. Her voice is gravelly with sleep, her voice cracking on the ‘r’ in your name.

She picks up a couple of the drawings to inspect them closely when you don’t protest. The movement has left the drawing of her poking out past the pile of other papers, though, and it’s hard not to notice it. Not only is it the best one out of the bunch, but it’s the only drawing of a person.

You don’t think she knows it’s her when she first reaches down to get a better look at it. Her jaw drops slightly with surprise when the recognition dawns on her. “This is—very flattering, Clarke,” she tells you, struggling to find the right words. “I wish I could draw like this,” she adds.

“Anyone can draw like this, you just have to do it enough.” At least she doesn’t seem freaked out by it. “But it’s honestly kind of shit. It’s not finished yet,” you add.

She shakes her head, “If you think this is shit you are very lucky, Clarke.” You smile, and she sets the sketch back down on your bed. “I didn’t know you were still working on it, though. I apologize for disturbing you.”

“I bet you could draw something like this with enough practice,” you tell her, taking the sketch back and organizing it with the pile of other drawings from this morning. You’ve been drawing for nearly two hours now, and although you were prefer to finish things in one sitting, you’re kind of burnt out.

“I already have sports and school to worry about, there’s not much room left for creativity.”

“What kind of sports do you play?” you ask, thinking back to last week when Lexa walked into the room in gym shorts and sweat still on her neck even after the drive home.

“I am on the rowing team at the high school,” she tells you. _The high school has a rowing team?_ You were pretty sure that was a sport only people in Boston played. The look on your face must say it all, because a moment later Lexa has a barely there smirk on her face. “I know it’s not the most popular sport at school,” she adds.

“Sorry,” you offer anyway, but she shrugs it off understandably. “Maybe I can come to one of your games…or matches, whatever you call them.”

She actually _laughs_ at that. It’s soft like her voice, more of a chuckle than a full blown laugh, and it only lasts a second, but you already can’t wait to hear it again. “I think the term you are looking for is race, Clarke.”

“Right,” you smile. “Maybe you can teach me a thing or two about rowing, I can teach you how to draw.”

“Maybe,” she replies softly. After a moment she adds, “Nia will be up any minute now to make sure we’re up. You should put that away,” nodding towards the drawing.

You do as she suggests, getting up and hiding your sketches away in the drawer of your desk. You can’t help but wonder about the wording she used. You _should_ put that away. You and everyone else in the house are expected to keep your rooms clean, but there’s something about the way Lexa talks about Nia, and the way she tenses up when she’s around that leaves a bad taste in your mouth. Maybe you’re just reading too much into the situation, picking up on things that aren’t really there. It wouldn’t be the first time.

\--

“Clarke?” Wells says, but it’s distant. “You’re up,” he adds as you slowly shake yourself out of your own inner thoughts. “Clarke,” he says again, a bit more forcefully than before. He reaches over the table and taps you gently on the shoulder to get your complete attention. You didn’t even notice that he had made his move.

The supervisors at the house, mostly Indra and Gustus since they’re in charge during the day, had finally decided that you were allowed to go out starting this week. You still had a curfew—seven o’clock at night—but until school started you were free to stay out as long you like, so long as you don’t break any rules.

You’d gotten dropped off at the Jahas’ residence a little after noon. Wells’ dad is working today so Wells took you out to lunch and now you’re back at their house. You’ve been sitting across from him in the living room playing chess for the last half hour or so. Your mind had only been half in the game at the best of times though.

“Sorry,” you mumble, assessing the board. You make your move, not wanting to the hold the game up any longer than you probably already have.

Wells chuckles softly, only needing a second to make his next move. “Well, if your strategy is to lose really fast, that was a great move.” He’s right. The games over, not that you can say you’re too devastated by the loss. “What’s going on?” he asks a moment later.

“Nothing,” you shrug. You hate that question these days. _What’s going on? What’s wrong? How have you been?_ _Are you okay?_ Even when you’re having a good day, it brings back awful memories. Your mind wasn’t even on your dad at the moment, and if you take Wells’ question for what it is—what’s going on, _in this moment_ —there really is nothing wrong. Your mind was elsewhere, but there’s nothing wrong with the subject.

“You can talk to me,” he reminds you, as if you could forget.

Eventually, you say, “I think I have a thing for my roommate.”

“Really?” he asks. The shock in his voice isn’t due to the fact that you just admitted to having the hots for your roommate—your female roommate. He’s probably shocked you would throw a game of chess with him because you were busy thinking about a girl. And that wouldn’t be any different if it were a boy.

“Yeah,” you sigh, chuckling to yourself. “Is that bad?”

“Of course not,” he says immediately.

“No, I mean—I don’t feel bad about liking a girl. Obviously. I mean, she’s my roommate. I’m pretty sure it’s against the rules to date anyone in the group home,” you explain.

“Oh, well you don’t have to act on it. You’re out in a few months anyway, just date her then.”

You shrug. “I don’t even know if she likes me like that.”

“You just have to pull out that Griffin charm,” he teases.

“I drew her while she was sleeping,” you admit.

“That’s actually kind of creepy,” he mumbles but you know he doesn’t mean any serious harm.

“I know! But she saw the drawing and didn’t even care.”

“She’s probably into you then,” he reassures you.

“I probably won’t go for it. It’s not worth getting kicked out over, and I have enough to worry about. I wouldn’t have minded the distraction, though.”

“Wait till school starts and everyone’ll be lining up to distract you like always,” he jokes. It’s funny, but you know it’s also true. You’ve only ever had one best friend, but you’ve never been short of admirers and suitors. It was probably the money. You wonder how everyone at your school will react now that you’re working at a bookstore and you’re locked out of your trust fund until you’re eighteen.

He starts setting the chess pieces back up. “You wanna put some actual thought into this next game or are you gonna keep daydreaming about your girlfriend?”

“Shut up,” you roll your eyes, but you help him get the rest of the pieces in their rightful starting spaces.

The next game lasts almost an hour. It’s close till the very end, but despite your best efforts Wells still beats you once again. Wells picks up the chess board once he’s put all the pieces away and hands it to you. When you give him a questioning look, he says, “You clearly need some practice. Take it.”

You have your own chess set back at your house, but you have no plans to go back until you’re forced to once you age out. “Are you sure?” you ask.

He nods and shrugs, “You know I have like, ten other sets. It’s no big deal.”

“I don’t even know who I’d play with besides you.”

“There’s gotta be someone at that house you can play with. Just take it,” he says, pushing it into your hands.

“Thank you,” you tell him softly, taking the board. It’s not a big deal from his perspective, but it’s still a sweet gesture. It’s very much a Wells thing to do. Anyone else could easily offer to drive you by your house to pick up a number of things you left behind, but he knows, without you having to say it aloud, that you would much rather not see that house again for as long as possible.

\--

When you get back from Wells’ house, you try drawing again, this time in the living room. Your sketchbook is filled with attempts at drawing your housemates. _Maybe_ you’re trying to prove to yourself that Lexa isn’t special, that she just happened to be there when you were trying to draw before. If it had been any of the other kids sleeping in the bed across from you that morning, you would’ve drawn them too.

It’s not working, though. All your drawings suck, but you blame it on the fact that none of them have stayed still while you draw. Lexa was the perfect subject because she was sleeping.

Murphy can’t shut up for five seconds for you to get his jaw and mouth right. Miller gets up from the couch every ten minutes to get something to drink or snack on, forcing you to start over every time he sits back down in a new position.

The only ones left in the living room at this point are Octavia and Raven; they’re sitting perfectly still as well. Raven is lying across the couch, an ice pack under her back and her head in Octavia’s lap. The only movement Octavia is making is slowly threading her fingers through Raven’s hair every few minutes. You still can’t get either of them right on paper, though. You tell yourself it’s because of the complicated position they’re in, not the subjects themselves.

“Are you drawing us?” Octavia asks suddenly. Raven looks like she’s fallen asleep in her lap.

You didn’t notice Octavia staring back at you, your eyes trained on Raven as you fruitlessly tried to add depth to her caricature on paper. You’ve been caught red handed. “Sorry, I can throw it away.”

“Wait,” she says immediately before you have time to do anything. “Let me see. I want to see if you made me look good.”

You reach over the coffee table between the couch and the armchair to hand it to her. Almost immediately she grimaces. “Are we supposed to look so…cartoon-y?” she asks, finding the nicest word possible to describe the drawing.

 “It’s not my best, I know,” you say, standing. You take the drawing back from her and set your sketchbook down on the coffee table, taking the other failed drawings out as well to throw away.

“Is that Lexa?” Octavia asks, spotting the older drawing once you cleaned out your sketchbook. “It’s actually really good,” she adds reassuringly.

“Thanks,” you sigh. Not exactly what you wanted to hear.

“Just don’t let the Ice Queen see it,” she says as an afterthought.

It doesn’t take you long to guess who she’s referring to. “Nia?” You remember the way Lexa responded to the drawing, after she remembered Nia would be doing room checks soon. When Octavia nods, you ask, “What’s the deal with her?”

Octavia contemplates her next words carefully, not sure if it’s her place to tell this story. “She gets off on power, and she’s kind of a homophobe. It’s a long story, but I’d just be careful if I were you.”

You know there’s more to it, Octavia’s said as much, but you know she also isn’t willing to say more. It’s not her story to tell and you know it will be useless to push for anything more from her. In a way, you hope you never have to find out how bad Nia can get.

\--

Once you’re back upstairs, you dump your backpack that you brought to Wells’ on your bed. You empty the contents inside—your sketchbook, your wallet, the chess board he gave you, and a bottle of water in the side pocket—and disperse them around the room. Your sketchbook goes on your desk, while the water bottle goes on the nightstand by your bed and your wallet is stashed away in the nightstand’s small drawer.

You look around for a place to put the chess board, but the room isn’t exactly expansive. It’s too big to fit in any of your drawers, and you don’t want it taking up all the space on the desk.

Before you can find a suitable place for it, Lexa walks into the room. She’s in a similar workout attire as the last time she came back from the gym, although she’s noticeably less sweaty in comparison.

“Is that chess?” Lexa asks, eyeing the board like she’s never seen one in her life.

You nod, “Yeah. Have you ever played?”

She shakes her head. “I have only ever seen it in movies and television.”

“Not to disappoint you, but it’s not exactly like the Harry Potter movies made it out to be,” you joke, and you get a small, barely there smile in return from her. It still feels like a victory no matter how small it is. “Do you want to play?”

She hesitates. “I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“You wouldn’t be,” you tell her immediately. “I don’t have anyone else to play with, anyway.”

“Okay,” she agrees after a moment.

You decide to play on your bed, Lexa sitting across from you and the board in between the two of you. You set the board up by yourself since Lexa doesn’t know the first thing about the game, but she watches you intently like it’s the most exciting thing in the world. As you place each piece in its rightful spot, you explain each one’s role and the rules surrounding it. Naturally, she still seems a bit lost by the time the board is fully set up.

“Do not feel obligated to go easy on me, Clarke,” she tells you.

“Oh, trust me, I won’t,” you reply with a smirk. You're competitive, and you lost enough against Wells earlier.

You don’t tell her, or make it too obvious, but you definitely don’t put in nearly the same amount effort that you would with Wells. It’s only fair to take it slow when she can barely tell one piece from the other.

Despite holding back, it doesn’t come as a surprise to you when it’s all too easy to beat her in the first round. She asks questions throughout the game like ‘This one can only move diagonally?’ or ‘These pieces are not that important, right?’, allowing you to anticipate her every move minutes before she makes it. She never accuses you of cheating even though most of the rules confuse the hell out of her in the beginning.

You felt the same way when first learning as a kid. It’s a complicated game, and requires an abundance of patience similar to fishing. You don’t know how or why you grew to love it so much, especially at such a young age, but you did. Maybe it was because it meant spending time with your dad, but thankfully Lexa asks if you can play another round before you mind settles on that idea for too long.

Despite losing, she doesn’t become discouraged or frustrated. She’s too busy memorizing your every move and every rule to feel sorry for herself. You think she looks cute like this—nose scrunched in concentration, glasses slipping down the bridge of her nose.

At some point during the third game you get distracted by that face, and Lexa uses it to her advantage. She’s started to understand the game better; it’s probably the age difference, but she’s learning far quicker than you did when your dad and Mr. Jaha first began teaching you and Wells.

Even with the distraction, she still doesn’t win. Neither of you win this round when you reach a stalemate. You call it quits shortly after that.

“This was fun, Clarke,” she says as she helps you put the board away. “I would like to do it again sometime, if that is okay with you.”

“Yeah, of course. It’d be nice having someone to play against around here.” It’s strange not playing with Wells (or your dad) but it’s not unpleasant. It won’t be long before she puts up a good competition, and the view won’t be anything to complain about either. With how quick of a learner she is, you wouldn’t be surprised if she’s beating you by the end of the week if you play a few more games like this.

\--

It’s Monday, and the house is eerily quiet. You think everyone else might be out, except for either Gustus or Indra. One of them is always here. You’ve decided to use the rare circumstances to take a nap.

Over the weeks you’ve been at the group home, you’ve gotten used to the noise. There isn’t much of it at night, save for when Lexa has her nightmares. But during the day, it was almost impossible to nap or even read the first few days. You’ve since grown used to it, learning to block out the noise with mellow music from your phone, or just keeping your eyes closed until eventually your brain gave in and shut off.

Despite the fact that you might have grown used to it, you’re still more than capable of appreciating the silence when it’s there. There’s nothing like a peaceful, midday nap.

That’s why when you feel your phone begin buzzing next to your head, you ignore it at first. After the third ring, you hope Wells knows how much you hate him.

You don’t bother looking at the caller ID when you swipe right and push the phone up by your ear. “Hello?” you mumble, the sleep, or lack thereof, evident in your voice.

“Clarke?”

You know that voice. It’s not Wells, and it immediately wakes you up.

“How are you calling me?” Your teeth are already grinding together, each word coming out as its own sentence.

“I’m allowed to make phone calls in here, Clarke,” the voice says.

The more she speaks, the angrier you become. She could be reciting Shakespeare’s sonnets to you, but your blood would still boil. You’re surprised your phone hasn’t broken from how tightly you’re gripping it.

“Then _why_ are you calling me? I don’t want to talk to you.”

“You’re my daughter. I have the right to talk to you.”

“I’m nobody’s daughter anymore, you made sure of that.” You hate the way your voice starts to shake. You wish you could just be angry without letting your other emotions get in the way.

“Clarke,” she says and you can hear a shake in her voice too. _Good._ “I’m still your mother. I think we need—”

“No, just shut up!” Your voice is shaking even worse now and tears start to cloud your vision. You think you might be verging on another panic attack.

You’re not just angry, you’re devastated—because she _is_ your mom, and despite all of her faults you always loved her. She was one of the two most important people in your life. The drinking had been a nuisance growing up, but you had become desensitized to it as you got older. That all came back to bite you in the ass when her drinking cost you the other most important person in your life. Now the thought of her makes you sick.

You take a deep breath and swallow back the tears threatening to break loose. “You lost every right to call me your daughter when you _killed_ dad. There’s nothing you can ever do to fix that.” _I wish it had been you instead of him_ , you almost say, but something stops you from doing it. Instead you add, “Don’t call me again.” You hit the end call button before she has a chance to argue with you.

You wipe away the tears in your eyes that never fell and block the number just in case she does try to call again.

\--

It’s your turn to cook dinner this week and you’re putting all of your energy—mostly your anger—into chopping vegetables. The knife comes down with a resounding _bang_ against the wooden cutting board. It’s ridiculously dull, whether from lack of care or from the supervisors purposefully dulling it, you don’t know. It makes things more difficult but it also gives you an excuse to stab harder and dig deeper.

(It took you close to ten minutes for you to convince Gustus to even let you use the knife, and another ten before he was willing to leave you alone in the room with it. You wonder if there's something in your file that says you shouldn't be around sharp objects or something.)

You tried to picture to picture the carrots and the celery as your mom’s face at first, but it didn’t work. It never does. They’re _vegetables_ ; you just don’t have the imagination to fool yourself. Instead you turned your anger into doing something productive, although it’s not like you had much of a choice. It’s your chore of the week to make dinner. If you choose to ignore it, you’ll only end up with even less privileges.

It doesn’t exactly assuage her anger, but it’s a good enough distraction for now. While it might dissipate tonight, you know your emotions will come back with a vengeance the next time you hear from your mom or the next time someone brings her up. That’s something to worry about at a later date—more than likely when it finally happens. _Whatever,_ you think.

 You finish cutting up the celery when Lexa walks in, and you vaguely remember seeing her name under dish washing duty earlier. There are only a few dishes still in the sink from lunch, but you know there will be more by the time you’re finished cooking.

After exchanging pleasantries, she asks, “What are you making?”

“Chicken soup,” you say simply. It’s one of the handful of dishes you know how to make. You had a nanny who cooked for you for most of your childhood, but you learned a few recipes by the time your parents decided you didn’t need her around anymore. Besides, you don’t think there’s a way to fuck up chicken soup. Then again, you think, there is Jasper.

The room grows quiet when neither of you have anything left to say. The only noise in the room is the faint hum from the sink faucet and the bang every time your knife hits the cutting board. You only get through cutting half a carrot before Lexa breaks the silence.

“Could you—do you mind doing that a bit more softly?” she asks.

“Sure,” you say. “Sorry,” you add after a moment.

“It’s fine, thank you.”

Cutting the carrots more softly means cutting them slowly, and with how dull the knife already is, it takes you twice as long to finish cutting them as it did the celery. At this rate, the soup will just barely be ready in time for dinner. You make a note in your head to start dinner earlier the next few days, especially if it involves chopping anything.

Lexa is only waiting for you to finish with the cutting board and knife to leave. After how long it took you to cut the carrots, she’s easily finished with the dishes. You start on the onion, trying to cut it as quickly but as softly as possible.

Naturally your eyes tear up some. You can’t help it when you go to rub the wetness away, not realizing that it will only burn your eyes more until it’s too late. It’s not too painful, but it’s irritating enough to make you want to rub them more, which you know now will only make them worse again.

Lexa seems to notice what’s happened because suddenly there’s a pair of soft hands around your jaw and a wet towel dabbing at your eyes. You’re so busy focusing on the feel of her hands on your face that you hardly notice the burn in your eyes slowly diminishing. When she pulls the towel away and you open your eyes, you find her face only inches from yours.

“Sorry,” she mumbles, noticing your proximity too late. You can’t help but smirk. She goes to take a step back but you stop her.

“Don’t be,” you tell her. To show your gratitude, you decide to lean closer and kiss her cheek. Your lips stay on her skin a second too long, and when you eventually do pull away it’s only by an inch. “Thanks,” you say softly with a smile.

When you pull away she looks much less anxious than you expected. After the first few hours of knowing her, after her cold exterior broke down and she apologized to you, she has seemed so fragile since then. You can’t help the surprise you feel when there’s no nervousness in her eyes--not that your goal was to make her anxious. She just looks transfixed.

 She’s the first to look away. “Are you finished with that?” she asks, reaching behind you to take the cutting board. You nod and she makes quick work of washing the board and knife. There’s still no anxiety in her actions, just a determination, as far as you can see. She mumbles a goodbye when she finishes the dishes and leaves you alone in the kitchen.

\--

You set the pot of soup to a simmer a few minutes later and head up to your room. You probably shouldn’t leave the room while the burner is on, but you’ve only been here for about a month. If Gustus or Indra is unhappy with your cooking methods you can just plead ignorance. How much trouble could you get in?

Unsurprisingly, Lexa is lying on her bed when you enter your bedroom. She’s writing something in a notebook when you walk in, but as soon as she notices you she closes the book and sits up.

It only takes a second for you to decide to sit down next to her.

“Can I help you, Clarke?” she asks when you remain silent.

You don’t know why you came upstairs exactly. Maybe you wanted to pick things up where they left off in the kitchen. You saw the look in her eyes. You might have been telling Wells just the other day that she wasn’t worth it, agreeing with him when he told you that there were plenty of other distractions out there, but if she’s willing to reciprocate, why not go with your first choice?

To be certain, you ask, “Did I make you uncomfortable in kitchen?”

She looks like she was expecting this. Maybe not this question exactly, but she knew you would not let the situation go without mentioning it again. After a moment, she shakes her head.

You scoot closer to her. “Can I?” you ask, glancing back and forth between her eyes and her lips. It’s probably a bad idea and you know it, but you can’t stop yourself from wanting it. Never mind the fact that you’ve been angry and overemotional and not really thinking straight ever since the conversation with your mom. You’d much rather be thinking about Lexa.

Instead of replying, Lexa answers by leaning forward and pressing her lips to yours. It’s tender, but still firm and passionate. You’re a bit caught off guard so it’s takes you a moment to really kiss back, but as soon as you do realize what’s happened you’re leaning into it, into the gentle hand that’s suddenly on your waist and the soft lips that are on your own.

You don’t know how long you kiss for. Each time one of you pulls away for respite, the other leans back in a second later to deepen the kiss even more.

Eventually Lexa is the one to slow it down, pecking your lips one last time being pulled away for good. “We should stop, before we get caught,” she says, your lips still so close together you can feel her breath when she speaks. There’s a lack of urgency in her voice, like in this moment she wouldn’t mind if someone walked in if it meant she could kiss you for a few more minutes. But you know she’d end up regretting it later so you don’t push for more even if you think you could win.

If you’re being honest, you’re a bit too stunned still to push her any further anyway. You didn’t expect her to kiss you first or at all, even, let alone to be such a good kisser. You didn’t think she would be a _bad_ kisser, necessarily, but you’re still happily surprised.

“You’re a good kisser,” you say softly, not being able to keep your opinion to yourself.

That playful, half smirk appears on her swollen lips, the same one from when she told you about the high school having a rowing team. It makes you want to kiss her again. “Did you think just because I’m quiet that I wouldn’t know how to kiss?” she teases.

You laugh. It’s the truth. Her quietness leaves so much to mystery. You know next to nothing about her. You shouldn’t be surprised at this point when you discover another complexity about her, or when she throws an assumption you’ve made about her out the window. She’s been doing it since the day you got here.

Her cold exterior only lasted a few short hours the first day, and any nerves you might have had left after she helped you with your panic attack vanished when you were woken up by her nightmares that night. In the following weeks you’d learned that despite the fact that she might not always speak up, she has more to offer when she does than any of the other kids here.

You wonder how many people she’s dated, how much experience she has. You wonder if you’re the first girl she’s kissed. You wonder if she has friends outside of the kids here. You even wonder about her past, even if it might hurt to hear about it. It's something else to think about and there’s so much you don’t know about her, but you can’t wait to find out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you have any suggestions for future chapters hmu @ bottomleksa on tumblr or just in the comments section on here. i have the general story planned out but not too many individual scenes or anything, so at this rate we're headed straight for angstville unless i come up with some filler scenes.

**Author's Note:**

> i had planned to include ontari in this, she was gonna have a small storyline, and i stopped watching after 307 so she'd basically be an oc but if anyone is uncomfortable with her being in the story lemme know and i can write her out of it pretty easily
> 
> hmu up on tumblr @ bottomleksa if you want


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